The First Fingerprint (18 page)

“We don't know. Truly, we don't. Everyone has their favorite explanation, but no-one really knows. I agree with my old teacher, Leroi-Gourhan, who thought it was linked to hunting, a sort of sign language, hence the bent fingers. Others think it was ritual amputation. But these are mere hypotheses, and I'm afraid we'll probably never be sure. There are limits … How can I put it? Some think that these hands had simply been amputated. This idea is backed up by the fact that it is physically impossible to bend some of the third phalanges. So it is thought that they were wounded fingers, frozen phalanges which had been cut off … that kind of thing. Anyway, the debate is still wide open.”

Palestro fell silent, and his expression betrayed his unease.

“Why are you showing me this picture?”

“If I told you, you probably wouldn't believe me. I'll tell you one day, but right now I can't. One more question …”

“Yes?”

“Do we know if the first men, as you call them, were anthropophagous?”

“Yes, but here too there are different theories. Not so long ago, there were still some cannibal tribes, notably in New Guinea. In fact, I think they still exist. I studied such groups in the field, thirty years ago now … You see, these tribes live a little like the first men did. We were able to observe them in detail, and that was how we learned so much about prehistory. We noticed that some people ate one or more of their fellows. The men consumed the muscles, and the women and children the innards, and the brains. To come back to the first men, I believe that during severe periods of starvation, and especially during ceremonies and certain rituals, they ate people, presumably to fortify themselves … We don't really know. But we can be sure that the Celts were cannibals. My British friend Jim Lippleton is currently directing a dig to study this aspect, and they've found a femur which had been split in two, with its marrow removed. This was at the beginning of the Christian era. Imagine that! What's more, it was probably the remains of a huge sacrifice, of about fifty people. One of the skulls had been smashed open with an ax … As for prehistoric times, we can be sure
that Neanderthal man devoured his fellows. We know this because remains have been discovered in the Moula-Guercy Cave in Ardèche, on the west bank of the Rhône. The discovery was made by a colleague at the Université de la Méditerranée in Marseille. The victims were adults, adolescents and even children. They had been skinned like big game. Their remains had then been thrown away without distinction among the bones of reindeer and other animals—there had been no ceremony this time. That goes back about 120,000 years, so there's no reason why Cro-Magnon man wouldn't have eaten his fellows too. It seems to have been all the rage …”

“And there's no connection with the painted hands?”

“Maybe, maybe. Who knows? This was the dawn of time. And we haven't got a very clear vision of it at all!”

“Still, try to think who could have stolen those pieces … You never know.”

The church of Saint-Julien stood in the heights of Marseille, toward the east, in the middle of what had once been a small village. This had since been swallowed up by the conglomeration, as had most of the outlying quartiers, but there remained a few shadowy lanes that led toward a square with two small bars and a corner store. All around, desirable residences were hidden behind high, dry-stone walls topped with broken glass.

The façade of the little church had been completely restored the previous autumn. Masons had stripped the entrance arch until it was pristine. As a result, this house of God had recovered its Provençal look, which made Saint-Julien all the more attractive. But the parishioners still had not come back. Like many others, the priest had to divide his time between this and two other parishes, Trois-Lucs and Les Caillols.

It was dull and rainy. The inside of the church was barely visible in the gloomy light from the stained-glass windows. Father Paul looked at his watch. It was 4 p.m. His few parishioners were presumably expecting him.

He kissed his purple stole, put it round his neck and came out of the presbytery. He passed the altar, put one knee to the floor, crossed himself and meditated for some time.

He saw that no-one was waiting for him outside the confessional, so he walked slowly along the ambulatory and stopped for a while beside the crib. Shortly before Christmas, the primary school children had repainted the mill and cave. They had also carefully placed green and red fairy lights in the tiny cardboard houses. The priest looked long and hard at the children's work. The crib seemed to him to be even more naïve and lively than it had a year ago. But Christmas was
over, and now he would have to put away the cottages, the pieces of cork, the backdrop of the sky and the figurines, and store them in the presbytery until next year.

In a few days, the little church would become calm once more. Father Paul knew that he could count on only a handful of the faithful, while the Christmas crowd would not be seen again until Easter or else for a wedding, baptism or funeral. He would enjoy a quiet life. Apart from catechism on Wednesday mornings, he would have the opportunity to devote himself to other concerns.

He glanced again toward the confessional, a cage of glass and wood which, according to the diocese's recommendations, had been placed to the right of the entrance in the chapel of Sainte Marie Madeleine. Personally, he preferred the old confessional just beside it, which was more impressive thanks to its shadowy Gothic appearance and the anonymity it provided.

A woman was waiting there. From this distance, she looked young. The priest crossed the nave toward her.

“Good morning, Father. I want to make a confession.”

She must have been about forty, maybe a little older. The fine lines on her face showed that she had been through a lot.

“You've come to the right place,” the priest replied.

He smiled broadly at her and pointed at the two confessionals.

“Do you prefer this one, or that one? Here we have the new model, face to face or side by side, in the open. And there we have the traditional one: kneeling in the dark, seeing nothing of the other person except their conscience. For serious sins, it's better. So which would you prefer?”

The woman nodded toward the old confessional. The priest showed her inside, and almost at once she started speaking.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmured in the silence of the confessional. “It has been years since my last confession …”

Behind the lattice-work of wood, the priest coughed. She felt like running away, but stayed there, glued to the floor by a mysterious force.

“How long? How many years? I suppose you mean a very long time …”

“Forever, in fact …”

“Ah …” Father Paul's voice grew softer. “So you've never really made a confession, is that right?”

“Yes, it is. My parents used to force me to go, so I made things up to tell the priest. I said I'd stolen sweets, or lied. That kind of thing.”

The priest sighed. She heard him shift about on his chair. It made little creaking sounds which echoed around the church.

“I know,” he said. “It's the sort of thing I hear every day. People make up all kinds of things to try to mislead the Almighty. But I'm afraid he isn't so easily fooled. So what do you want …?”

“Father …”

“Call me Paul. ‘Father' is so old-fashioned. What's your name?”

“Julia.”

“What a beautiful name.”

The priest's voice was even gentler. Julia felt uncomfortable; an indefinable sensation made her shiver. At each word, the sound of his voice entered her more deeply. Her neck prickled.

“Do you live in the parish?”

“At 36, chemin du Vallon.”

“Yes, I see,” he said. “A lovely street. Splendid houses. So, the Lord has spoiled you! In material terms, at least.”

“Oh, Father, you know …”

“No, Paul.”

“Father Paul, then!”

“If you insist … but you know that the disciples called the Lord by his first name.”

“Yes, I know,” she answered timidly.

“Tell me, Julia, why do you so want to confess?”

“I don't know, I … I have sinned. That's why.”

“I have no doubt about that, but how? Have you cheated on your husband?”

“No, I'm single.”

“Forgive me for such a personal question. I'm just trying to help you.”

“You wouldn't understand. As a priest …”

“Stop right there. I've not always been a priest. I had another
existence before. I know just as much about life as you do. And I sinned a lot. I have done things that might make you blush or run straight out of this confessional if I told you. And then, you know, what with all the things people have told me … Some even accuse themselves of murder.”

“I know, but it's hard for me to admit to.”

“Maybe you'd prefer to come back later? On another day? I remain at your disposal at any moment of the day and night,” he paused, then started to laugh. “But the night's only for really serious sins. The sort that can't wait.”

“What if I came back tomorrow, at the same time, would that be alright?”

“Absolutely. But be punctual, because I have to go and preside over a funeral at Les Caillols.”

“I'm never late.”

“Go in peace, Julia.”

“See you tomorrow, Paul.”

The bells in the clock tower were chiming nine o'clock. All that could be heard in chemin du Vallon was the purring of televisions. A gentle breeze was blowing through the pine trees. Paul rang at number 36. Julia was alone, as she was every evening.

She had phoned him an hour earlier, completely distraught. She wanted to deliver herself of a burden which was weighing down on her. He had agreed to come and talk to her after a certain amount of hesitation. To avoid gossip, he never went to see his parishioners at such a late hour.

Father Paul felt ill at ease in the huge salon. It reminded him of the life of luxury he had had as a child. Julia sat on a coral-pink sofa and stared at him. The man of God shifted in his armchair, his little knapsack lying between his feet.

She offered him a drink, which he refused. She poured herself a whisky and began to talk about this and that. Gradually, the conversation centered on her, her lonely life and her despair.

The priest listened to Julia in silence, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair. She told him that she never saw anyone, like most of
the young women who came to him for confession. This was the sad reality he had observed since starting to spend most of his time taking care of people's souls.

They spoke for an hour before Julia began to feel at ease. At the age of forty-two, she was finding it more and more difficult to bear her homosexuality and loneliness. In her youth, after a strict Catholic upbringing, she had turned to spiritualism and the Occult, and had then taken an interest in early religion. Shamanism had fascinated her as a return to genuine practices, untainted by the moral weight she had experienced in her childhood. After such a progression, she had had her doubts, and considered becoming a nun to escape a world which seemed to her full of turpitude. The priest replied that you did not take holy orders like that, without first having received the call from God, a sort of illumination in the mists of life. She admitted that she had never received such a call.

At about 11:00, visibly tired, the priest went home. She watched him walk through the trees in the garden, like a disturbing yet familiar shadow.

Fast asleep, Julia had a nightmare. Black on black. Inside the confessional, she was admitting her sins to Father Paul, who was laughing at every word she said. Long, sonorous, mocking laughter. The sarcasm of sanctimonious moralists from her tender childhood.

She woke with a start, her forehead covered with sweat, her hands and feet as cold as ice.

She looked toward the window and noticed that she had forgotten to close the shutters. There was a full moon, a bluish light enfolded the garden, and only the top of the tall pine tree reflected the yellow glow from the lamp post, as it was swayed in the slight breeze.

She decided to get up and shut out this hollow vision of the night. As her feet touched the floor, she heard a strange, barely perceptible sound, like a breath. She turned toward the door, but saw nothing except the familiar shadows of the corridor that led to the salon. And yet, she was not dreaming. The sound of breathing was definitely there, now even more distinct.

She sat on her bed and nervously felt for the switch of her bedside
lamp. In her haste, she knocked over some books and a pile of fifth-year homework which was lying on the table. There was a crash. Then silence.

The breathing was coming from right in front of her.

She suppressed her fear so as to overcome the darkness and saw a moonbeam's pale reflection glint in the glassy whiteness of a savage eye. A monstrous shape was approaching in the cold light. A tall, thickset figure from the dawn of time.

And then, this strange prayer:

“I am the hunter

Give me your blood

May the spirits of the dead guide you through the night

May your flesh fortify the first man …”

“Jean-Louis, do you have any mussels left?”

“Yes, a dozen.”

“Little ones?”

“No, they only had big ones!”

“That's why they're not biting. Just look at the mussels we're giving them. They've never seen anything like it!”

“It's not a question of mussels, it's a question of time. Sea bream generally feed at night.”

“But how do you think they can spot mussels at night, dimwit! My grandfather used to fish at any time of the day.”

“Yes, but in those days, there were still fish!”

The waves broke against the seawall of Pointe-Rouge, flopping against the blocks of concrete. Since 7:00 that morning, Maistre and de Palma had been enjoying a day off and were attempting to fish using sugared mussel as bait. The technique was as complicated as it was mysterious, and it required a certain skill. First, the hook was placed in the mussel, which was then held shut with elastic wrapped round a sugar cube … Once in the salt water, the sugar would dissolve allowing the mussel to open gradually. It looked more real than real! It was an infallible method which Maistre had learned from a fisherman in L'Estaque, but he still hadn't mastered it.